


On the Wall

by Kass



Series: The Sentinel fanworks [29]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Time, Jewish!Blair, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-15
Updated: 2008-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/pseuds/Kass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Blair read the writing on the wall. (My long-in-progress first Jewish!Blair story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> I've long wanted to write a Jewish!Blair story. Now I've finally done it. No offense is intended, to anyone.
> 
> The plot was inspired, in part, by an article from The New York Times entitled "The Jewish Tipping Point," by Samuel Freedman, sent to me by Sandy Herrold. Thanks, Sandy.
> 
> The most thanks, of course, go to Sihaya for the beta-read.

A phone call from Simon: definitely not the best way to start a Saturday.

"Sandburg, pick up the phone." His voice rumbled, slightly distorted by the speaker on the answering machine. Even so, it cut right through the double doors and woke Blair - by now he had to be sensitized to that pitch and tone.

Blair opened his eyes, blew out a breath of frustration, kicked off the sheet (too hot to be sleeping under anything else) and made it to the living room before Simon started talking again.

"Yeah, I'm up." Not the best way to greet one's captain, maybe, but it was seven-fucking-thirty: who the hell was civil at that hour?

"Sorry to wake you." He didn't sound sorry, but Blair didn't say so. "Get your shoes on; we've had a call from the Jewish Community Center on Reach street."

The sleepiness deserted Blair instantly. It was a few years already since that wacko had opened fire on a JCC in Los Angeles, but the mental connection had been made, and he couldn't hear "JCC" without half of him wanting to flinch. Especially not when he was hearing it from his c.o. at an ungodly hour of the morning.

"Not a gunman." His voice was tight.

"No, no - nothing like that." *Now* Simon sounded repentant. "Didn't mean to scare you. No. It's just vandalism. But they're pretty upset, and they want somebody from the PD out there now."

"I'm on it. Thanks, Simon." Blair had stretched the phone cord as far as it would go to hunt for a pair of matching socks in the laundry pile on the floor; he had to hop back to the table to return the phone to its cradle.

Socks on, one leg into his pants, he paused. Jim.

"You up?" he said, softly.

"What do you fucking think, Sandburg?"

Mmm. Uncaffeinated Ellison.

"You listen to Simon's end, too?"

He heard the bedsprings creak as Jim stood up. "Yeah." He appeared at the top of the stairs, rubbing one hand over his eyes. Like a Greek god in striped boxer shorts. Blair blinked to shake the reverie free.

Jim cleared his throat. "You going over?"

"Yeah. You want me to bring back some bagels or something?"

To his surprise, Jim shook his head. "I'm awake. Might as well come with you."

* * *

  
The glass doors at the front of the JCC were covered over with brown butcher's paper, held fast with masking tape. There was paper on the brick fa?ade to the left of the doors, too, although the tape didn't really stick there and one corner was peeling away. Yellow spray paint was visible there, what looked like half of a swastika, and Blair suppressed a shudder.

I'm not powerless, he reminded himself. We're the police; we're on their side.

Still, the symbol made him uneasy. No one had to convince Blair Sandburg of the power of symbols.

Jim seemed to sense his unease, or maybe he was just being touchy-feely, asserting himself as the alpha-male, whatever the hell it was he did with his regular touches and pats. Whatever: he let his hand rest on Blair's shoulder as they stepped into the lobby. Blair was glad of it.

There was a man reading in the lobby: slim, olive-skinned, with a shock of unruly hair. He wore khakis and a green short-sleeved shirt; around his neck, a gold star of David. When they entered he looked up expectantly. "Detective Sandburg?"

Blair walked over and shook his hand. "That's me. This is my partner, Jim Ellison."

"Detective Ellison," Jim said, smoothly, and Blair felt a slight blush run up his face. Jesus, he'd made it sound like they were *partners*. Talk about your fucking Freudian slips.

The man didn't seem fazed either way. "David Weintraub," he said. "Thanks for coming so early."

"Let's start from the top: tell me everything you can." Blair pulled a reporter's notebook from his back pocket and uncapped his pen.

David took a deep breath and made a visible effort to lower his shoulders. God, the guy was tense. "Okay. Um. Last night we took the kifty kids to Golden Manor - you know, the nursing home - to lead a Shabbat service there."

Jim glanced at his partner. "Kifty?" he asked. "Sorry, I'm not so hot on the Hebrew."

David gave a nervous chuckle. "Oh! Um. C-F-T-Y - Cascade Federation of Temple Youth. It's the local branch of the national Reform youth group."

"Right," Blair said, nodding.

"Were you in Nifty?" David asked, having evidently pegged Blair as Jewish.

Blair shook his head. "Nah. We moved around a lot when I was in high school - never in the same place very long."

"Anyway." Jim wore his best pleasantly-blank cop expression.

"Anyway," David repeated. "Okay. No one came back here last night - the service started around four-thirty, which is well before sundown at this time of year, but," he shrugged, "we're not so much into the letter of the law anyway, and the seniors tend to be in bed by eight."

"So you found the vandalism this morning."

"Yeah - I came in early, we have kids showing up at eight-thirty for Tot Shabbat. So I called the police. The guy I talked to told me not to wash anything off, that you'd need to see it. But I didn't want the kids to get here..." He shrugged, making a vague gesture toward the door. "So I covered it."

"We'll copy it down and cover it back up. A PD photographer will be here shortly to document - after that, you're welcome to get rid of it."

David nodded.

A couple of cars pulled up and parked; three sets of parents, each with toddler in tow, were heading for the door.

"I have to lead the service- do you need anything else from me?"

"Not at the moment, thanks, David," Jim said. "We'll call if we have questions."

"Or when we get somewhere," Blair added.

They shook hands again, David turned down the hallway to the left, and as the kids and parents started coming in Blair and Jim moved quietly to the lawn, waiting for the foot traffic to die down before unwrapping the front of the building.

* * *

  
The photos made an ugly mosaic on the top of Blair's desk. Even though they'd seen the real thing that morning, there was something about the crisp black-and-white prints that made the hatred seem more profound.

Swastikas on the brick wall. "Fuck You" crossing the boundary from brick to glass.

"This sucks," Blair said again, aloud.

Jim tipped his chair forward until all four wheels were on the floor and skated over to Blair.

"Who fucking *does* this shit?"

Jim shrugged. "Got a few ideas from the database if you want to make some house calls, Chief."

Blair pushed the photographs into a rough pile, glad to have something else to occupy him for a minute. "Yeah? Whaddaya got?"

Jim opened the manila folder on his lap. "Thomas Strade, twenty-two, did some community service back in '98 for assaulting a pair of Jewish kids. Earl Reed, thirty, accused of making anti-Semitic remarks to a grocery store clerk but never prosecuted. Coupl'a teenagers reported by somebody who didn't know it was legal to have Nazi symbols on your skateboard."

"Ugly, but legal." Blair stood and downed the last of his iced coffee. "Get us out of the fucking office, at least, right?"

"Yeah." Jim pulled on his baseball cap. "Remind me again what I'm doing at work with you on a Saturday?" The protest sounded routine, and Blair ignored it, as usual.

* * *

  
The interrogations were useless. Tom Strade was a slightly overweight geek with a crew cut who insisted that he hadn't known the kids he took a swing at were Jewish in the first place. Earl Reed came to the door obviously stoned, had nothing useful (or even especially logical) to say, and had a double feature ticket stub which served as a decent alibi for at least part of the evening. Jim grumbled later that he should've arrested the guy for possession, but Blair was glad that they hadn't.

They only found one of the street kids, but he didn't seem malicious; he claimed not to know what a swastika was, although when they asked about the pattern on his board he showed it off proudly as "a fuckin' cool energy thing, man."

By late afternoon they were sitting in the living room, fan blowing full blast, watching beads of sweat accumulate on the iced tea glasses they were slowly emptying.

"You still thinking about the case, huh?" Jim's voice was sympathetic.

"Yeah," Blair admitted. "Nothing like a little anti-Semitism to make a guy feel more Jewish, y'know?"

"I hear you."

In the pause before Jim spoke again Blair listened to the whirring of the fan blade, the distant sound of music coming out of someone's car, rising in pitch and then falling again as the car drew further away.

"It might be nothing. Could just be random shit."

Blair shook his head. "I want to figure it out, Jim. That's what we do."

"I know it's what we do, Sandburg." Ah. A hint of annoyance again. Blair wondered, idly, if Jim had any idea what effect his slightly-frustrated rasp had on Blair's libido. "I'm just saying, you can't make yourself crazy over it."

Blair drained his glass. "Yeah." He stood and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Hey - I think it's too hot to cook again. What sounds better: cold supper or pad thai?"

Jim looked at him hard for an instant, then seemed to accept the change in subject. "Cold supper isn't food, you know that."

"C'mon - cucumber-dill soup, a coupl'a salads, leftover fried chicken..."

Jim quirked half a smile. "Cold fried chicken's different. Yeah, okay."

* * *

  
Monday morning Blair canvassed the neighborhood around Reach street again.

They'd done it together on Saturday, while the PD photographer was documenting the words on the walls; they'd hit the people across the street, the caretaker of the Reform temple down the block, the last person who'd been in the JCC on Friday afternoon (a high school girl leading an arts and crafts class). The talks had yielded nothing, and Jim told him he wasn't going to get anything new on Monday, but Blair went back and tried again anyway.

Tuesday brought a grisly double-homicide for them to focus on. It was an ugly one, two women in their thirties dismembered, and it effectively pushed the JCC case onto the back burner.

Over the next few days, while they worked on the homicide, Blair shuffled through the JCC file a few times. At the end of the week he called David again, explained that they were working on it, and filed the case in the standing file on his desk. Although he was at a loss, he refused to consider it closed.

At least they caught the murderer late on Friday, after a chase which put two police cars in the shop and left broken glass all over the parking lot at Knox Natural Gas where the motherfucker worked as a janitor.

* * *

  
Saturday morning Blair woke up early, half-expecting another call from Simon, but the call didn't come. When it became clear that he wasn't going to fall back asleep, he got out of bed and went over to the bookshelf by the window, kneeling to read the spines on the lowest shelf. He picked a few and took them out to the living room, the coolest place in the apartment, to read.

Balancing a glass of juice on the pile of books, he settled into the couch. When Jim came downstairs he was midway through "I and Thou."

"Have I ever told you that pages turning sounds like vast blocks of granite being dragged over each other?"

Blair looked up and grinned. The tough guy thing was such a fucking act: it was like Jim felt the need to pretend to be a dick, despite the fact that there wasn't an ounce of convincing rancor in his tone.

Plus, there was plenty to grin *at*. Jesus: bare-chested Jim Ellison with his hair rumpled from sleep. Blair said a silent shehecheyanu. Unrequited room-mate lust was imperfect, as life situations went, but at least he had the eyes to see and the wits to appreciate the fucking spectacular specimen of manhood which was, at that very moment, trying (and failing) to glare at him.

Blair shrugged, gesturing vaguely with his book. "Rough life, man."

Jim cheerfully flipped him the bird.

When Jim emerged from the shower Blair had put Buber aside, moving on to Heschel's writings about the Sabbath. Fackenheim, Plaskow and Schachter-Shalomi were stacked and waiting, the latter resisting the persistent drip from the outside of his glass of lemonade.

"What are you, back in school or something?"

"Wanted to revisit," Blair said, craning his neck to see what Jim was getting out of the refrigerator. Orange juice - milk - ahh, good man, a block of cheddar cheese, some scallions and the carton of eggs.

"Judaism 101?"

"Yep. Took it as an undergrad."

"Jeez, I was kidding." Jim was peeling an onion to mince; by the time Blair finished the next page the onion was sizzling.

Blair read in relative silence while Jim made breakfast; over omelettes and toast they didn't talk much. It wasn't until the second cup of coffee that Jim waved again at the pile of books.

"Didn't know you were into this stuff."

"Wasn't raised with much."

Jim smirked and Blair thought, for a split second, how glad he was to have returned to their usual modus operandi where Naomi was concerned.

"But Judaism's a great geek religion."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah, man." Blair warmed to his topic. "I mean, first of all, there's Hebrew. Esoteric languages are perfect training for nascent anthropologists. And then there's the whole Torah-Talmud importance of commentary thing. And the idea of wrestling with the angel. I mean, it's like license to argue with the tradition, y'know?"

Jim actually seemed interested, so Blair put down his mug. Easier to talk with hands free.

"Plus the whole mystical side - trying to redeem what's broken about Creation, using Hebrew as a mantra to alter consciousness."

"Like drugs, only safer." Jim's eyes glinted.

"Hey, not so safe, not if you really think you're communing with God."

Jim stood and stretched; Blair made a slight effort not to appear to be staring.

"You commune with whoever the fuck you want to, Chief," Jim said, and padded to the door where his shoes rested neatly. "I'm going for a run."

* * *

  
"Sandburg." Simon walked by his desk early on Monday, first cigar of the day already in his fingers.

"Sir." Blair closed his email screen (no need to broadcast the fact that he was reading personal mail at work) and looked up.

"My office. Bring the JCC file."

Blair gathered the couple of folders of photos and reports, picked up his cup of coffee and followed Simon through the mottled glass door.

They sat. "Any progress?"

"Not much." Blair cleared his throat. "Did a few interviews. No one saw anything happen, no one can think of anyone who might've done it, and nobody in our database seems even remotely connected."

Simon nodded. There was a pause. "Going on two weeks now since the call."

God damn it. "I don't want to close the case."

"Sandburg, eight thousand nasty things will happen in greater Cascade before lunch today. Your caseload can only go so high, and I don't want to short something serious because you're attached to this thing. At this point, it's an isolated incident."

Blair made himself take a deep breath, a sip of coffee, another breath before responding. "Simon. I want to solve this."

"I know you do." Simon's voice had gentled. "Look. You don't have to declare it closed. But I want it off your official case list so if something else comes up, you and Jim can take it on. Am I clear?"

"You want us to carry a caseload-plus."

"You're the one who wants to keep this thing."

Would Jim kill him if he agreed to an extended caseload for them both? Screw it. "Fine."

Simon nodded. "Dismissed."

When Blair stepped back into the bullpen, Jim was at his desk thumbing through a stack of papers. "Thanks for the extra work, partner," Jim said. As usual, though, his eyes were at odds with the annoyance in his tone.

"No sweat." Blair grinned and headed for the coffee machine. It was going to be another long day.

* * *

  
Monday evening brought a report of a drug ring, some searching in an old warehouse by the docks, and a headache for Jim from inhaling something disgusting.

Tuesday was spent twiddling their thumbs while they waited for Forensics to tell them what they'd bagged at the warehouse.

Wednesday they were taking a late lunch at the Taco Shack when a call came in on Blair's cell: vandalism again, the same shit, but this time at Temple Beth El.

Jim ate his last taco in the car as Blair drove. When he licked his fingers clean Blair swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on how appalling the case was, not how mind-blowingly arousing he found Jim Ellison sucking his own fingertips.

Did Jim know Blair was interested? Blair was never sure. At first he'd figured it was obvious to anyone with half a neuron to his name, much less heightened powers of perception. But years had gone by since Blair's coming-out announcement - which could have been seen as an opening, if one were inclined to look that way - and Jim hadn't made a move. Now Blair figured maybe he'd overrated Jim's observation abilities.

At this point he was so used to the quiet hum of unrequited lust that it felt normal. Jim did things like suck juice off of his fingers, Blair strangled the comments that threatened to rise in his throat, and they went on as always.

Like now.

They went in the back door, as they'd been instructed, and followed the small signs to the rabbi's office. In the anteroom a secretary said to go on in, that Rabbi Green would be with them momentarily. Through the heavy swinging door the office was cool, air-conditioned - with a hot draft from where a rock had broken the office window.

"Miserable, isn't it?"

Both men turned at the gentle alto voice. The woman who'd spoken was about five-foot-four, with a red braid halfway down her back, dressed in purple linen overalls and a white tank top. She extended her hand.

"I'm Miriam Green."

* * *

  
The outside of Miriam's office window had yellow swastikas on it, and the same "Fuck You" that had been on the JCC's door. The weirdest part, though, was the "Fucking Hitler-lover" scrawled on the outside of the window sill. Everything was the same garish yellow they'd seen the week before.

The rock which had obviously broken the window was still on the floor.

"I came in around lunchtime to do some work - I teach a conversion class on Wednesday nights," she explained. "Steve came in the back door this morning, and didn't come into my office, so he didn't see this stuff." She gestured toward the window. "As soon as I came in, I called the police."

"This may sound ridiculous, Rabbi, but is there anyone you can think of who would have...a vendetta against you?"

Jim was turning on the charm, which sent Blair's heart into his stomach. Granted, this one seemed perfectly nice - not like the women Jim usually went for - but he still didn't like seeing his partner flirting.

"Not really." Miriam sat at her desk and chewed idly on the end of a pencil. It wasn't a sexy move. Thank God; she didn't seem to be responding to the Ellison magic. "I mean, I get the usual hate mail, but it's nothing serious."

"Usual hate mail?" Blair stepped a pace closer.

She looked up at him. "I've taken a few stances that aren't universally popular."

"Such as," Blair prompted.

"Well, I'm planning to officiate in a few weeks at the union ceremony of a gay couple in our congregation. Which the Reform movement officially sanctions, at this point, and fortunately our members seem by-and-large comfortable with my decision."

"Oh my God, you're kidding me - they've sanctioned gay marriage?" Blair wanted to take the question back as soon as he heard the eagerness in his tone - wanted to have said it in a more professional manner - but Miriam just grinned and nodded.

"It's at individual rabbis' discretion. We have the option to sanctify gay unions. Which is incredibly exciting."

"Yeah."

Jim's voice broke in. "So if your members approve, and your movement sanctions it, why's it unpopular? And what's the other unpopular stance?"

Blair dared a glance at his partner, but Jim's face revealed nothing.

"Not everyone in Cascade's religious community accepts the Reform decision." Miriam's voice was flatter now, slightly harder, although it was clear she was trying to remain detached. "Some folks in the Christian Right have issues. And some in the Jewish Right, too."

"You mean Orthodoxy."

She nodded. "The same people who have the biggest problem with my other line in the sand: I'm willing to officiate at intermarriages."

Blair moved to sit down in the other chair, realization washing over him like a dirty wave. "That's it."

"You think so?"

Miriam looked concerned; Jim just looked uncertain. "What is?"

"That explains the Hitler-lover thing. Rabbi Green, I think you're being targeted by someone who thinks your pro-intermarriage stance is-"

"-anti-Jewish," she finished for him.

"Finishing the work Hitler started."

Jim was shaking his head. "That's a little over the top, Chief."

"It's not," Blair insisted. "I've heard people say it."

Jim shrugged. "Okay."

"I hate to think that this was done by Jews," Miriam said, toying with her pencil again as if it were easier to look at the pencil in her fingertips than to look at the men across her desk.

"My question is," Blair said, "what do we do about it."

* * *

  
They hadn't been able to come up with a plan of action. A stakeout for potential vandalism, even vandalism that qualified as a hate crime, was a waste of manpower; until the vandals returned, there wasn't much they could do.

But Miriam had thanked them for coming, and Blair had assured her that they would keep it from happening again.

He just wasn't sure how.

Thursday Forensics confirmed what Jim already knew, that the warehouse they'd checked out was coated with heroin residue. They set up a stakeout.

Brown and Rafe took the night shift; Connor and Atkins the day shift on Friday; and Jim and Blair sat in a beat-up Buick sedan all of Friday night, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing happened. They traded off with Brown and Rafe on Saturday morning, went home to sleep until noon, and then went out to buy groceries for the first time all week. Being on almost no sleep gave the hot afternoon a glazed-white, overexposed-film feeling. By four they were sitting on the living room floor folding laundry and drinking beer in the periodic cool of the oscillating fan.

It seemed like, no matter what they started out talking about, they wound up back on the vandalism case somehow.

"I'm still not sure I buy it, Chief." Jim finished balling the matched socks and scowled at the one white sock that was left over.

Blair took a deep breath, blew it out slowly. "It makes sense, Jim."

"I just don't understand the vehemence." He uncapped another beer and took a swig, leaning back on a pile of folded shirts. "To do something this nasty..."

"It's there. I'm telling you. A lot of Jews have really, *really* ugly feelings about intermarriage."

"What, is it a post-Holocaust thing?"

"Partly, yeah." Blair took a long pull on his own beer, finding the bottle already alarmingly light. "Look: Jews and Christians have centuries of persecution in their collective history. But it looks a hell of a lot different to the Christians than it does to the Jews."

"Majority culture."

"Right." Blair finished his beer, blew a few notes against the top of the bottle, then stopped when he saw Jim's expectant look. Like, *finish the lecture, Sandburg.* "The Christians figured it was all okay after Vatican II, when the Pope said the Jews didn't really kill Jesus, but it doesn't look that way to most Jews. Not when you've got family stories of pogroms that happened because Jews were accused of making matzah out of Christian babies' blood."

"So intermarrying is basically turning to the Dark Side."

"Kinda. Depending on which branch of Judaism you ask, a kid with only one Jewish parent may or may not be Jewish. Which means you're either diluting the people, or you're terminating your line altogether."

"Hence the Hitler graffiti."

Blair nodded, his fingers steepled. When Jim didn't say anything, he looked over at his partner. Jim's eyes were unusually solemn.

"So...what's your take on intermarriage, Chief?"

Blair was startled. "I don't think it's a bad thing, actually."

Jim raised his eyebrows.

"Look, the central tenet of relativism is that truths look different from different perspectives, right? I can't buy into the primacy of this kind of cultural purity. Besides - if I actually find somebody to spend my life with, why would I shut that person out just because they weren't Jewish?"

Jim smiled and tipped the last of his own beer down his throat. "Isn't that what you said about being bi?"

Jeez. Guess Jim remembered that conversation after all.

"Yeah," he said, unable to help smiling back. "Yeah, that's about what I said." There was a moment of silence. "They both double my chances of a date on a Saturday night, right?"

"You haven't double-booked a date in a while, Romeo."

Huh. Yeah, well, maybe that's because I'm fucking obsessed with you, Blair thought, God help us both. "Not so interested these days."

Jim made a noncommittal sound.

"You haven't exactly been pounding the pavement, pal."

"Not so interested myself, now that you mention it."

The smile remained on Jim's face, but his eyes grew serious again. "Question."

"Shoot."

Blair stood to get himself another beer, so he wasn't looking when Jim said, "What about marrying someone who wasn't Jewish and was also gay?"

Blair almost dropped the bottle on the kitchen floor. "What?!"

"Not you specifically. I mean, how would Judaism react to that."

Oh. Of course. Not me specifically.

"Depends." He opened it, took a swig, and returned to the sofa. "Some people would be pissed about one, some about the other. And some wouldn't care."

"Like Rabbi Green."

"Bingo."

They both drank in silence for a few minutes.

"So what do you wanna do with what's left of our Saturday?" Afternoon was waning and the heat was starting to break. "Catch a movie, maybe?"

"Actually, I was-" Blair stopped and fiddled with the label on his bottle.

"What."

"You're not going to-"

Jim rolled his eyes. "You want to work on the case."

"I want to look for spray paint cans."

"Sure. Just tell me where in the entire fucking city of Cascade to look."

Blair put down his half-empty bottle. "What I figure is, anyone frum enough to-"

"Frum?"

Whoops. "Sorry. Um - anyone kosher enough, anyone hardcore enough, to attack a Reform rabbi like this is probably going to belong to the Orthodox shul on West street. And they're going to have too much respect for the law to drive there for services, so they'll be within walking distance."

"Sorry to burst your bubble, Chief, but vandals don't tend to respect the law much."

"Oh. Not *our* law. Jewish law."

Jim tightened his lips, nodding. "So you want to go to a synagogue and walk around."

"And see if you can sniff out paint cans, yeah."

Jim heaved a sigh as he got to his feet and pulled his cap back on. "Remind me why I put up with you," he said, but he was already gathering his wallet and keys.

* * *

  
It was almost dark by the time Jim smelled the cans. By then he'd almost zoned on the unpleasant offering somebody's golden retriever had left on a lawn, had identified at least four different supper menus from start to finish, and was grumbling that his sinuses were killing him - until he stiffened, cocked his head, and said sharply, "This way."

They moved in a zig-zag between several houses before zeroing in on the one immediately behind the synagogue. Sure enough, in the dumpster on the curb was a shopping bag with three empty spray paint cans in it.

"Fuck! I knew it." Blair felt jubilant.

"Chief, this is hardly a conviction. Somebody could've been spray-painting their bike or something."

"Banana yellow?"

Jim couldn't help laughing, which Blair figured proved his point.

"Besides - we can take them in, see if there's prints..." Blair was fishing the shopping bag out of the dumpster. Asking Jim to get any closer to the pile of trash (which smelled pretty rank even to an ordinary nose) didn't seem like a good call at this point in the day.

"Chances are the prints won't be in the database. Betcha these kids don't have a record, whoever they are."

Oh. Yeah. "Right. I hadn't thought of that." There was a pause as they started walking back to where they had parked. "Still - it's progress, right?"

"Yeah," Jim said, absently, head tipped again.

"Jim?" No answer. "Jim, what is it?"

"Spices," he said, almost dreamily. "Cinnamon and cloves. And sweet wine." Night blanketed the neighborhood as they climbed into the truck.

* * *

  
Blair woke up at the crack of dawn again and immediately thought of the paint cans. Again.

As quietly as he could he pulled on clothes, took the bag of cans off the kitchen table, and slipped out the door. As he drove away he rolled his window down: the heat hadn't set in yet, the morning was almost cool. He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do when he got where he was going, but at least it felt like he was getting somewhere.

It took a while to find the rabbi's office at Sha'arei Tefilah, but he found it by eight-thirty and knocked on the half-open door.

"Come in?"

The man at the desk was fiftyish, bearded, slightly paunchy, dressed in light grey pants and a thin white shirt. He smiled.

Blair awkwardly sat down on the chair beside his desk. "I'm Blair Sandburg," he started.

The rabbi nodded. "Rabbi Goldblum."

"I'm with the Cascade Police Department - but I'm here unofficially," he hastened. "I wanted to talk with you."

The man's eyes plainly said, so *talk*.

"You, ah, know about the vandalism at the JCC and at Temple Beth El."

Rabbi Goldblum nodded. "Terrible. In this day and age." He sounded sincere, although his face seemed guarded.

Blair took a deep breath. "I have reason to believe someone in your congregation is responsible."

The rabbi's smile vanished, replaced with a hardness in his eyes.

Blair opened the bag. "These were found across the street last night."

"That's no proof." He looked like he might throw Blair out.

"I think there are people in your congregation who disagree with Rabbi Green's policies."

"Undoubtedly. You're Jewish, Mr. Sandburg?"

"Blair. Yes."

"Then I don't have to explain to you."

"People who intermarry..." Blair stopped, not sure how to say what he wanted to say.

"Are lost to us as soon as they step under the chuppah. If they even *have* a chuppah." The rabbi's tone was tight, disapproving.

"You don't know that," Blair argued.

"On the contrary, I've seen it a hundred times. The kind of people who think intermarriage is an option are not concerned with Judaism's survival."

Frustration uncoiled in Blair's chest. "That's a hell of a blanket condemnation. Have you *talked* to anyone who's intermarried?"

"Why?"

"Because we might have something to contribute to the larger world of Judaism!" Blair took a deep breath, made an effort to calm his breathing again. "Look. The most important person in my life is a man who isn't Jewish. We're - we're not partners. I mean, not that kind of partners. And even if we were, we'd never adopt kids; we're both cops, that's no life for a child. So in my case, it's not a question of whether the Sandburg line continues to be Jewish or not. For me, it's a question of whether I'm in, or whether I'm out."

The rabbi didn't say anything, but Blair thought maybe his eyes were softening a little.

"It means a lot to me that there are places within Judaism that would still let me in. Can you understand that?"

"I...understand you." The rabbi chose his words carefully. "I don't agree with your premises, but I see what you are saying."

"You and your congregation can disagree with whoever you want. But this kind of harassment, this kind of vandalism - what does that do for k'lal yisrael?"

"Do you belong to a congregation, Mr. Sandburg? What have you done lately for k'lal yisrael?"

"No, I don't. And I'm doing this. *This right now*."

Blair realized he was leaning in, was speaking loudly again, and - a little surprised and sheepish at his own vehemence - sat back in his chair.

The rabbi blew a breath out through his lips. "Okay. Here is what I would like. Give me those cans."

Blair gripped the bag tighter. "I can't do that. They're evidence."

"You're here unofficially, you said."

Blair nodded.

"So give them to me, *unofficially*." He blew out a long breath. "There are a few boys I should talk to. I think I know who might be responsible."

"Then you need to tell me who they are."

"No." The set of his chin was firm. "This is my responsibility."

"Major Crimes," Blair started, then stopped when the rabbi shook his head.

"If I intercede with God on this congregation's behalf, Mr. Sandburg, I can also intercede with the Cascade police department."

"I don't have the jurisdiction to let you do that."

"Let me make you a deal. Give me the cans. I'll talk to the boys. If this happens again - and I can promise you that it will not - I'll reveal their identity. Otherwise, let this remain within my community."

A little uneasily, Blair loosed his hold on the bag and handed it over.

"Thank you for your assistance, Rabbi."

He looked a little tired, but not entirely angry, as he stood and held out his hand. "You're welcome. Blair."

* * *

  
The real surprise came when Blair walked out of the building, shielding his eyes from the brightness of the sun, to find the truck parked behind him and Jim leaning on the flatbed. His heart simultaneously soared and plummeted.

"Jim!" What are you doing here, he wanted to ask, but didn't.

And then he did. "What are you doing here? And how long have you been standing there?"

Jim held out Blair's wallet. Whoops. "Didn't want you driving around town without this. Could be trouble if you were pulled over."

"Thanks." Blair took the wallet, amused. "I can just see Simon's face."

Jim chuckled. "Yeah."

Blair slid the wallet into his back pocket and then wasn't sure what to do with his hands. They felt strangely empty.

Empty. The bag of paint cans. Oh, God, Jim probably knew he'd given them away.

"You, ah, hear the deal I made with the rabbi?"

Jim nodded, but didn't say anything.

Fuck. "Look, I know it's not exactly legal," Blair backpedaled, frantically trying to think of something that would justify his unorthodox course of action.

Jim narrowed his eyes, then shook his head, seemingly shaking the idea away. "What? Oh. Shit, Chief, I won't tell Simon if you won't. Seems to me like you solved the problem." He smiled, and Blair smiled back.

Then it occurred to Blair what else Jim might have heard.

"Um. How long exactly were you standing here?"

Jim paused before answering. "Long enough."

Blair felt dangerously on the verge of exploding. Again. "Long enough for what? Man, it's been a roller-coaster of a morning already. Don't dick with me."

Jim stepped closer, so close Blair could feel the heat of the other man's body, and smiled. An incinerating smile. He licked his lips. And, when he was sure he had Blair's attention, said - very softly - "What a shame. That's *exactly* what I was planning on doing."

They were so close they could have kissed. Blair could have sworn Jim had never looked at him quite that way before.

And then Jim stepped back. Still smiling that dangerous smile. "Home, Chief?"

"Home," Blair repeated, fervently.

As Jim climbed into the truck, he reached into the back seat and clapped his siren light onto the roof. Grinning devilishly, he tore down the street as fast as he could.

And that was as fast as Blair followed. Heading home.

The sun had risen enough to make the morning hot, but he didn't care. They were spending the day indoors.

They'd create a little heat of their own.

* * *

  
At a red light Blair stopped; Jim careened through, barely missing what would have been a nasty collision with a taupe Ford Taurus.

"You stupid son-of-a-bitch," Blair murmured, just in case Jim was listening.

He did drive quickly once the light turned green, but by the time he turned into their lot the truck was neatly parked.

Too nervous to wait for the elevator, he took the stairs. Three at a time.

Just as he approached the door, Jim opened it. Heart thudding like a bass drum, Blair stepped past him. "Listen," he started. "Just to make sure we're on the same page here-"

Jim closed the door, slid the latch, and in what seemed like one motion turned, moved the few steps to where Blair stood, and melted their bodies together.

Jesus Christ. Was it the four years' worth of anticipation that made the kiss so goddamn good?

Some moments later they broke apart from the waist up. Blair was breathing hard. Gratifyingly, Jim was a little red-faced himself.

As Jim moved one hand to cup the back of Blair's neck, Blair forced himself to speak.

"I want this more than anything."

Jim's hips were rocking gently against Blair's. His thumb moved lightly back and forth over the join of Blair's neck and ear, which made him shiver.

"And I don't want talking to fuck this up."

Jim stilled all motion for an instant, unsmiling. "So don't talk." He drew Blair back for another kiss.

Yeah. Fuck conversation.

Who cared what had brought this on? Nothing could be more important than the feel of Jim's body against his, Jim's erection pressing into his hip, Jim's mouth opening for his tongue.

Blair pulled away long enough to murmur "horizontal" before latching his mouth to Jim's throat.

Jim pushed him away, gasping, then grabbed him by the arm to pull him towards the stairs. They almost tripped over each other on their way up.

At the top of the stairs Jim pulled his shirt off, then reached for Blair's. He had some trouble getting it free, mostly because Blair had latched onto him and didn't want to let go. Rubbing against that glorious expanse of bare skin...

Blair fastened his mouth at the edge where Jim's neck met shoulder and sucked, enjoying the tremor which went through his partner's body. He ran a hand over Jim's chest, resisting the urge to pause indefinitely at the tiny peaked nipples. It didn't seem to take much: the brush of his thumb, over, back, and Jim sat down hard on the bed, sighing.

He looked up at Blair, expression almost plaintive. "You're over-dressed."

Jim Ellison sitting half-naked on his bed, a hickey starting to show on his neck, nipples hard and pink, wanting Blair to get his clothes off. It was so good it seemed unreal.

Blair's shirt was off before he had time to think anything else, and his pants were unfastened and pulled halfway off when Jim leaned back and unzipped his own jeans. Blair had to look down and finish undressing fast, before the sight of Jim set him on fire. Maybe literally.

He climbed onto the bed, intending to lean over Jim, but Jim pulled him down, putting him right where Jim wanted him. God, the man was strong. Blair reveled in the feeling of being with someone who could push him and actually *get* somewhere. And, of course, in the feeling of pressing his body against the length of Jim's, their legs twining, hands exploring chests and sides and hips.

Jim pulled back and licked a circle around Blair's ear. "I can't decide if I'd rather suck you or ask you to fuck me." His voice was low and gritty and it made Blair moan, helpless against the onslaught of images.

"I just get one?"

For an instant the maelstrom of kisses and touches paused. He'd meant to ask if he had to choose one *now*, but as soon as the words left his mouth he realized he'd asked two questions in one. Do I have to choose now? Can this happen again?

Jim took a breath, then answered. "One now, one tonight, if you want." Taking the risk of showing what he wanted - that he wanted this, that he wanted to try to make it work - made his face look unguarded, younger somehow. His eyes met Blair's.

"And then tomorrow you can fuck me?" Blair suggested, propping himself up on one elbow beside his partner.

Jim grinned, the moment of tension seemingly past. "Fair play. I like it," he said, moving to lick a nipple. Blair let himself flop back and shivered happily.

"So what's it gonna be?"

Blair must have waited a split second too long to make up his mind; next thing he knew Jim's hands were framing his hips and Jim's mouth was devouring him whole.

Hot and wet. Tongue working him back and forth. He groaned, feeling like his entire body was boiling. And every time he opened his eyes, saw that this was *Jim* worshipping his cock, he had to close them again to fight off the orgasm that threatened to come immediately, come now, come and overwhelm everything.

It was a losing battle, and one he was ultimately delighted to have lost.

When he was able to open his eyes again, finally, he saw Jim lying on his back next to him, casually rubbing himself, pushing the skin tight with the flat of his palm. The sight made Blair throb, as if he hadn't just come, as if there were any prayer of his cock standing up again.

He moved to kneel over Jim, leaning down for a kiss, and Jim let his dick go, using his hands to hold Blair while they exchanged words of desire with their silent mouths. Then he pulled back, kissed his way down Jim's neck, bit gently at Jim's nipples. He stayed there a while, encouraged by Jim's husky sighs, the way his hands latched onto the sheet, the way his body tightened until it sang like a bowstring with every rub of Blair's tongue and teeth.

Then he moved further, placing open-mouthed kisses on Jim's smooth belly and hips, finally coming to rub his face against Jim's cock. Jim pushed up against him the way a cat butts its head into a welcome hand. Blair pulled back, licked his lips, took in one last look at the panorama of Jim's body and slid his mouth down.

It had been a long time, and his reflexes weren't what they once had been; he had to settle for sucking about half of Jim's cock and wrapping the rest in his hand to stroke. Still, Jim didn't seem to be complaining.

Spurred by Jim's earlier suggestion, Blair carefully moved one hand back to trace the vein behind Jim's balls. Jim groaned and spread his thighs in invitation. Blair pulled back for an instant, sucked one of his own fingers good and wet, and then returned to lick Jim's erection, letting the finger rub tiny circles over his asshole. When Jim came, the spasms moved through Blair's mouth and along his finger, both.

Blair let go of him, then curled around to rest his head on Jim's belly, more content than he could remember being in a long, long while. His body still hummed from his own orgasm, and for a few moments Jim trembled with what seemed to be aftershocks, which made Blair feel like a god. Jim's hand moved down and stroked the back of his head in gentle circles.

There was nowhere they had to be, Blair rationalized, so it was okay if they dozed for a while.

As he drifted off, his mind spun through the events of the last twenty-four hours, dishing up images like slides. Jim, leaning back on a pile of folded laundry and arguing with him. Jim, hunting for the scent of paint cans in the twilight. Pizza, late, with a movie on the tube. What he'd said to the rabbi about intermarriage, about being a part of the tribe.

Was he intermarried? Not exactly. Falling into bed once in four years doesn't exactly a marriage make. But then again, the rest of the four years had been not unlike a marriage, Blair thought sleepily. Taking care of each other. Watching each other's backs.

They weren't the same, in religion or in much of anything else. But combining didn't have to mean diluting. They could mesh and still be different. Still be who they were.

Blair's last thought, before he fell asleep, was to marvel at the stunning beauty of Jim's chest, rising and falling, so like and yet so unlike his own.


End file.
